


A Kiss at the Finish Line

by Ulan



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Rivendell | Imladris, Third Age, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 18:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14266767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulan/pseuds/Ulan
Summary: It is a long road, the one of duty, especially when one has something waiting at the end.





	A Kiss at the Finish Line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peasantswhy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peasantswhy/gifts).



> Response to peasantswhy's kiss prompt for Glorfindel and Erestor (#12 — a hoarse whisper, "kiss me").

Behind the doors, Glorfindel can still hear the music. They are not completely on their own, and on that night of all nights, there is no one in Imladris who does not know that the two of them are together. 

It is their wedding day, after all. 

Glorfindel takes a deep breath. Even now, he still cannot believe it. He had been anxious all day long, afraid that even as they stood at the threshold with the goal in sight, something else could still happen. That has been their way, after all, all these long years—everything a waiting game, everything else coming first but the thing that Glorfindel would have chosen above all others, had such a choice been allowed. 

He turns to look at the Elf beside him. 

Erestor stands, magnificent in the moonlight. Glorfindel has always thought so, even when he had no right to such thoughts. Even back when first they met, literally now an age past, when they stood at the docks where the air smelled and tasted of the Sea, and Glorfindel faced years of service to the High King and to the Valar as they awaited another war—still, he singled him out. On that day, Glorfindel’s first in Middle-Earth and in his second life, he finally understood what the minstrels meant when they sang songs of love. 

But he came not only as Glorfindel, but first and foremost as an emissary of the Valar, the response to a call the answer to which neither Gil-galad nor his advisers even knew to expect. Yet the moment Gil-galad saw him, the High King had jumped at the opportunity to have such power at their hands. In no time at all, Glorfindel had an army under his command, a king’s banner once again on his back, and whatever else he might have wanted for himself had had to wait. 

“Erestor.” 

Even that he comes to Glorfindel now is a thing of wonder. Erestor, after all, has always been his own person, and he never fails to remind anyone who may have forgotten. Sharp, stubborn, even impatient and quick to anger, the old counsellor is not one that can be made to wait. For all that Glorfindel knew that here is the Elf he would have wanted for his own, he could not claim Erestor when so much still needed to be done. Even if the years in Lindon held promise, and Glorfindel’s fool’s heart nurtured hope when Erestor deigned to walk with him on occasion, or allowed conversations that stretched on ‘til morning, in the end, the Music unfolds. Eregion falls, Imladris is sundered from Lindon, Númenor fails, the fight continues. 

Erestor’s hair is smooth between Glorfindel’s fingertips. Someday, even soon perhaps, Glorfindel hopes to have the luxury of counting strands of them against his pillows. That is the thing, after all, when one is in love, is it not? Glorfindel used to count the days when they were apart, and eventually he had had to count the years, for in the days that they waited if Sauron were to rise again, the years went on to centuries. Glorfindel stayed in Lindon where Gil-galad and his army were, though often his thoughts strayed to Imladris many leagues away. 

“I hope you would smile,” he hears that beloved voice say. “This ought to be a day of joy, but one would not think it, looking at you.” Cool hands find his cheeks, fingertips lightly caressing. Glorfindel closes his eyes to them, helpless to the feeling. Erestor, however, is of a different mood. “Glorfindel, get it together. As you were even the one who proposed, if you are regretting this now, you have only yourself to blame.” 

This pulls a laugh out of Glorfindel. Something in his chest tightens at the same time though, some pathetic part of him overjoyed by something so simple as this easy teasing. After all, Erestor is not one to tease often, nor does he do so with just anyone. 

“It is not regret I feel,” says Glorfindel. He takes one of those hands and kisses it. 

He wonders sometimes how much of him Erestor can read. They have been together officially for only a little over a year. To any other, it must all seem fast and new. But too long had the mourning for the High King been, and the post-war restoration and healing had taken even longer. By the time Lindon was all but no more and the majority of them who did not choose to sail came finally to Imladris, many years have once again passed. 

Seeing Erestor after so long was water to soil that long has known draught. By then, Glorfindel had been too tired, too stretched by the messiness of wars that he can never grow used to despite what others seem to believe. If he tried to rekindle their friendship too desperately, sought for more too fast and too eagerly the moment he was certain that his duty was done and such things were finally allowed—surely he can be forgiven this. 

Erestor lets Glorfindel kiss his fingers, one after another. Glorfindel relishes the moment, breathes in deeply until Erestor is all that he can sense around him. What a luxury that is—finally, _finally_.

“We are wed,” he hears Erestor whisper before he feels lips pressed against his forehead. “You can relax now; it is done."

The words echo in Glorfindel’s mind. Wed now, and it is not in their nature to sever bonds already made. For so long he had wanted this without any reassurance that he could ever have it. 

“Kiss me.” The words come hoarsely when he says them and even as he pulls Erestor to him. It is not the first time they would do so, nor even the second time given that they kissed in front of witnesses earlier in the day. But this would be the first kiss they would share in the privacy of their rooms— _their rooms,_ his mind even repeats—and somehow the very idea of it overwhelms him. 

If he kissed Erestor too harshly, Glorfindel can only think to apologise for it later. It is not long before lips are joined by teeth, the taste of Erestor hot and sweet on Glorfindel's tongue. His hands are not idle, grasping at clothes and hair, tilting that precious dark head up so Erestor can receive more of Glorfindel's kisses. How— _how_ they can stop, how anything can ever be enough, Glorfindel does not even know. 

“I have wanted you,” he says, and he kisses those lips still, over and over and over until he feels like he can breathe again. “Since the first day, since I saw you, I have wanted you. I long for you even now.”

He realises he never told Erestor so. In the mad dash to the finish line, he perhaps may have grabbed at the other and dragged him to where he had long wanted them to be. He wonders now at how quickly Erestor agreed, when Glorfindel asked if he could have him, and presented to him a silver ring, only a year upon moving to Imladris. 

Sharp eyes catch Glorfindel's, bright in the evening light. 

“Take your fill,” says Erestor, voice warm and deep and indulgent, “for I am yours, since the first day and since I saw you, even as I also reprimanded myself for a fool. For who in their right mind would desire a vessel of the Valar? Even for the Firstborn, a thousand years is a long time to wait.” 

And then he kisses it away, Glorfindel's fleeting surprise, and distracts him with other things—desire, joy, relief. That Glorfindel was not the only one, that he could have had Erestor had he asked—they fill him to overflowing.

Erestor pulls them deeper inside the room. He continues kissing Glorfindel, too, who stands muted by it all, only able to kiss back as Erestor pulls the clothes from them both. 

And as the evening progressed with both of them in bed, with Glorfindel's wrapped around Erestor tight, if desperation swells and at the height of it all, tears even threaten to fall, well... this time, at least only the stars stand as their witness.


End file.
